


Gordian knot

by crispycrumblycrust



Category: Holby City
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispycrumblycrust/pseuds/crispycrumblycrust
Summary: Hanssen sutures a wound. Gaskell watches him.





	Gordian knot

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I got this out of my system but apparently not, so here’s some more stuff about Gaskell’s mental health since this show probably won’t explore it. There’s some overlap with a previous fic, but not much, I’ve gone a different direction here. Posting it now since next week’s ep will wreck us all and things will only go downhill...

He stares at the floor, feels the silence in the room and the pulse on his wrist. He applies a bit more pressure, mouth thinning as spikes of pain seep through the warmth. They cut through the numbness and pull him back to the present.

Time resumes when Henrik returns and closes the door softly behind him.

There _should_ be a first aid kit here too, but John's decided months ago to remove the two bags from his lab. The fire extinguishers followed soon. They're now at the end of the corridor.

Henrik rolls a chair – his chair – and navigates his way around the mess on the floor.

The loud _snap_ as latex meets the inside of his wrist echoes around the room.

As Henrik carefully prepares the anesthetic, John frowns. That's...too much. John prefers ice: ice cubs, frozen vegetables in a bag, a bottle of cold water. Too late for that now. He's pushed too far this time and things are out of his control now. He sutured a wound once without sedation. And it hurt. It _really_ hurt. The pain wasn't the good kind, didn't purge emotional strain and physical tension and anchor him to a safe place.

Henrik glanced at him sharply, frowning, a question in his eyes that demands an explanation. John must have said something out loud.

"It's worse than it looks," he says, shrugs as his eyes track Henrik weighing the correct amount of painkiller. He's said it twice before and twice Henrik's ignored him. In fact, this time he only gives him a look, the same someone gives to a child that's not listening, not _behaving._ John wonders if others feel the same way whenever he doesn't answer their questions, inquiries, _interrogations_. He wonders what's worse: being treated as a child or as a patient.

He mulls over this, still hasn't reached a conclusion when a hand reaches for him.

John leans back. "Wait, you'll get blood on your-"

Too late.

It's one thing that spilled liquid and broken glass stain the normally so clean and sterile lab, it's another thing entirely as blood – _his blood –_ soaks into the sleeve of his shirt. What's even more baffling is how Henrik ignores this. His focus is entirely on John. Henrik, who carries around a handkerchief everywhere, who can recite health and safety procedures in his sleep, who _hates_ chaos and disorder.

John swallows. The implications aren't lost on him.

His wrist begin to tingle. Minutes have passed. The anesthetic is working. Henrik can start now.

John grit his teeth, bracing himself for anything but pain. He observes him closely, hopes that will distract him enough, for the numbness in his wrist is the wrong kind of numbness. It's not that he doesn't trust Henrik or his suture skills. Even in the early days, when they were young, naive, and inexperienced, Henrik was the reliable one. During suturing practise John demanded fast result, tried ambitious methods while Henrik remained meticulous and patient.

"Something similar happened to me once," he says softly.

"What?" John sits straighter, ignores his warning look until he can't.

"Yes, months ago," he says, and continues.

If that's meant to reassure John he's wrong. He wants to snatch the equipment in his hands but knows that will only makes things worse.

"But don't worry, it's healed."

"Where?" he asks after a moment, hoping the whisper has disguised the shaking in his voice.

Henrik nods to his right wrist.

...News hasn't reached him. Whoever were involved, they were sworn to secrecy. Annoyance bubbles up from somewhere deep inside him, but another part is glad that Henrik has people he can trust, depend on.

"Accidents happen," he comments softly. The thread makes another loop.

His gaze strays from Henrik's wrist to his own. He's broken his right wrist once, years ago. The official explanation John had given was 'an accident'. But he had worked double shifts for weeks, accepting more cases than he could handle, treating more patients than he could, helping colleagues while he struggled with his own workload. He only had so much time, energy and strength. Everything was too much. Then, suddenly, he heard rather than felt a loud _snap_ as the bones of his wrist dislocated. That didn't matter at the time, for the state of calm and peace he had reached overwhelmed everything else.

John set the bone back in place himself. It was as if he was staring at someone else. _Dissociation,_ his mind supplied, adding another tally mark. He didn't care then. This wasn't the first time he hurt himself and stared at a twin whose existence only became known after he'd reached a limit. This wouldn't be the last time either.

And John's right. Here he is, and Henrik's patching him up. If only everything can be fixed so easily...

His wrist in a cast, his duties became restricted. As the days slowly passed he felt more and more useless and another kind of urge resurfaced – break the other wrist, slam his head on a desk, kick his foot against metal.

He didn't do it, then, but now...

Henrik's only about half way done. John can do it. Finish the job. Relieve the stress, the pressure that's been building up inside him. That way he's forced to put a halt to the trial.

But as soon as he visualises the consequences, he knows he can't do it. That will be too much, too selfish. He has already come so far. No, _they_ have, his team, the patients, any future candidates. Together. There's too much at stake so he can't let his own limitations ans weakness stop everything else.

Besides, miracles _do_ happen. He'd found another angle while he was stuck with paperwork. How ironic. Something that he's always hated caused a switch in careers. After his wrist had healed, he focused more on research, helping more than one patient at a time, actually _making_ a difference. Limited resources and funds, stuck in one hospital and a one small team. It always frustrated him, chained him even.

...No, he can't give everything up now. He's close, so close to a solution.

His gaze slowly travels up. There's Henrik, a certain focus on his face, as if this is a complicated surgery, not a standard procedure he can do blindly. As if John's important to him, worthy of his attention and time.

Perhaps...perhaps he should come clean about what he's been doing, confide in Henrik. He doesn't even have to say something. John can pass his Dictaphone to him, sit back and wait.

He grits his teeth, wonders if he'll still be here by his side afterwards, agree with John even.

But his past actions already predict the future. John knows that Henrik _will_ leave. It's happened before. He confided in David once. He talked about Lana – his dearest, _dearest_ Lana – about her hardships and misfortune resulting in a coma. He was getting closer and closer to a cure to save her and others in similar positions, but time, and so many other factors were against him.

But two minutes had passed and David's agitation grew and a moment later he was confused and disorientated, a sight that happened more and more. When he finally recognised him, John uttered her name – Lana Albert – but his only answer was a smile and a _Lana who?_

Tears came and John hugged him. They were tears of joy because David's back for the moment. Tears of relief because John was given one hundred and twenty seconds. Never again would he spill his guts, look at what it had resulted. But most of all, tears of sadness. He was a terrible friend, a terrible surgeon, a terrible human being.

John should just die.

It rarely echoed like this, with such intensity and conviction. What stopped him from doing something reckless were his arms around him, his scent and warmth and tender reassurances that _everything will be fine._

It's happened recently, with Rox. They pass each other in the corridors, greet one another, but there's a distance now, a wariness. The coldness in her voice, the disapproval on her face, crossed arms protecting her heart, they hurt John every single time.

If Henrik leaves too...John's not sure he can survive that. He's afraid he'll finally listen, _truly_ listen to that little voice whispering about a better choice, a permanent solution to all his problems. He's afraid he'll finally make a concrete plan and execute it.

"All done," Henrik says with a nod.

John blinks, glances up. His neck aches from his hunched position, and there's tension in his shoulders and thighs. Henrik stares at the wall over his shoulder, frowning in a way that says he's disturbed and worried. John suspects he might be the cause.

"We'll check after a week."

"Okay." John can remove the stitches himself, but he knows telling him that will only make things worse.

He flexes his fingers, wincing. The anesthetic is beginning to wear off. _Dissociation_ , his mind sings to him again and draws another tally mark. He smiles sheepishly when Henrik throws a warning glance his way.

He wants to help Henrik when he cleans up the mess on the table, but Henrik holds up a hand. One furtive look is enough. He perches awkwardly on his chair, feeling useless and insignificant.

"John?"

Henrik's already staring at him when he meets his eyes.

"Shall we call it a day?" he asks, his voice carefully flat.

Something tells John that he's repeated this question before.

"I'll leave in a bit."

A long moment of silence follows as Henrik continues gazing at him. John swallows. Henrik knows. He _knows,_ or at least has his suspicions.

John waits for the killing blow, but it never comes. John never pushes Henrik when he takes refuge in a self created bubble. It seems that this time Henrik is returning the favor. It must be as hard for Henrik as it is for him not to intervene whenever he retreats and isolates himself. They both know a confrontation is the last thing they needed right now.

"I'll send someone to clean this up," he says slowly. His hand shakes when he gestures to the mess on the floor.

Resistance will be met with silence, so John glances at a clean spot and nods.

"Do you have a spare shirt?" he asks, pointing at John's bloodied sleeve. His fingers have stopped shaking.

He considers lying for a moment, just to see what Henrik will do. If he's lucky maybe he'll offer one of his own shirts in his locker or car. Henrik always comes prepared.

John nods again. He sometimes forgets how liberating the truth can be, when navigating through a cross examination, weaving a story without giving away all the details, filling silence with more silence can be very, _very_ tiring.

Henrik crosses his hands behind his back. He's lingering here. Normally John savours every stolen minute spend in his private company, but the particular way his eyes examine the lab and never rest on him suggests he's thinking deeply, perhaps waiting for something.

_Suicide watch_ pops up in his mind. Ironic, because executing a certain scenario is the last thing in his mind, ever. Most of the time everything is contained in his mind, dreams and daydreams.

John finds and holds up his briefcase, waits until Henrik meets his eyes. He stares, keeps on staring until one of them concedes. That person _won't_ be John. Ever.

Henrik sighs and accepts defeat after a long silence. He nods and leaves without saying goodbye. He leaves the door open.

John closes the door softly. He shifts his weight and frowns when the soles of his shoes _creak._ He's stepped through glass, created an even bigger mess. Somehow, he's left no footprints, only glass splinters. No evidence that he's the culprit.

He fishes out the pair of gloves that Henrik's discarded in the bin and grabs a roll of paper towels. He squats down, squints his eyes as he starts to wipe his own blood.

If only everything can be fixed so easily with such an easy solution.

This is a start. The rest – the trial, the patients, his papers, so many other things – will follow later.


End file.
